


Losing Myself to Remember You

by Chamelaucium



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Grief, M/M, Mourning, Pining, Post-BOFA, kind of fluffy angst, tw: alcoholism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-13
Updated: 2014-06-13
Packaged: 2018-02-04 12:22:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1778974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chamelaucium/pseuds/Chamelaucium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>There it was, further proof that adventures were truly Terrible Things and to be avoided at all costs. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Not only were they uncomfortable things which made one late for dinner, they also drove one to an unfortunate state of alcoholism. </em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Losing Myself to Remember You

**Author's Note:**

> This is a one-shot I've had in my head for ages which I extended and polished a little yesterday in celebration that one of my particularly horrible exams was over (yay!). Only two more exams to go, and then I'll be free to fic for a whole 8 weeks :D
> 
> As I mention in the tags, this story is about alcoholism so if that will be triggering please don't read this. Otherwise, please enjoy!

Bilbo Baggins wasn’t quite the same after his _adventure._ To be sure, he’d still nod you good morning if you passed him in the streets and he was never anything but polite to everyone, but it wasn’t long before everyone noticed the way he’d set off at the crack of dawn for multiple days at a time for a long walk in the forest, coming back muddy and covered in leaves; while the tales he told the children were all light and fun, even they saw the way his eyes would sometimes dull, his smile fall, before he quickly fixed his expression and carried on.

Perhaps he’d just become a little eccentric; unfortunately it was a little more than that. It soon became apparent from the bottles the milkman would collect; as well as the bottles from old Proudfoot’s farm left out on the back step, there’d be small coloured ones and large funny shaped ones with the unmistakable smell of the incredibly strong brew the Men were so fond of.

It soon became common knowledge, the reason for Bilbo’s occasional late mornings and even later nights. ‘Twasn’t every day, to be sure, but on those days when he didn’t venture out until past the sun’s zenith, he’d look old and tired and ready to burst into tears. No one knew the source of his misery - Yavanna forbid that anyone go _prying_ and poking their nose into his private business! - but there it was, further proof that adventures were truly Terrible Things and to be avoided at all costs.

Not only were they uncomfortable things which made one late for dinner, they also drove one to an unfortunate state of alcoholism.

 :::

It was all the dwarves’ fault, really. In fact, a lot of bad things in his life could be attributed either directly or indirectly to the dwarves. If you got right down to it, it was all Gandalf’s fault; or if one was _really_ into laying blame it was all their stupid Mahal’s fault for creating such an idiotic race in the first place.

He’d got used to drinking ale on the journey, much watered down as it was. On his way back after leaving Erebor on the orders of her dying King, Bilbo had taken every opportunity when they’d stopped at an inn to drink it and remember his friends - or not-friends, in the case of one particular dwarf - and the good times. Well, as good as they ever were. But they’d stopped at Bree and some of the Men had been drinking a colourless, fiery strong drink that brought tears to his eyes and burned his nose; after a couple of those he’d forgotten Thorin bloody Oakenshield completely and had a night free from dreams.

It hurt that even as Thorin was dying, he’d still insisted that Bilbo leave. And thus Bilbo strove often to forget the pain of losing not only his friends, but the trust of one he’d valued. He and Thorin had grown close, of a kind, and Bilbo mourned the passing of the quiet but kind dwarf he’d known to the gold-sick man he’d become. He didn’t even know if Thorin had survived the battle; he’d been in a critical state when he’d left and Bilbo had heard nothing since. He assumed the worst, believing that the Company had not wished to burden him with the knowledge or that they thought he did not care, and so Bilbo Baggins drank to mourn him.

It had only started off as a splash with his tea of a morning, just to help him get through the day and still the slight tremble of his hands. But soon it was two splashes, and then before bed too, until eventually the bottle was never far from his hand and the memories too close for comfort, the fiery burn of the alcohol the only thing that chased them away.

He stopped visiting his relatives, he spent long times alone in the forest, and he stopped checking his post. No one had anything of import to say to him any more so his letterbox remained full of unopened post until Hamfast would set it all in a large pile on the kitchen table, from where it would all be swept into the fire or tossed one by one onto the flames, depending on how reckless or depressed Bilbo was feeling.

And so Bilbo existed in his boring, safe Shire, missing his friends and missing Gandalf and mourning especially for his lost, dead love, Thorin Oakenshield. 

* * *

It was a miracle when Thorin woke up after slipping into a sleep even the elven healers hadn’t thought he’d wake from. But wake he did, and slowly he recovered; although his recovery was much set back when he realised the hobbit - his hobbit - was truly gone (on his own orders; that made it hurt so much more) and he’d tried to get up and chase after him, despite Balin telling him he’d been gone _months_ now.

Eventually the healers had persuaded him that the only way to recover faster was to stay still in bed and take his medicines and poultices; Thorin did so with bad grace, his time on enforced bed rest spent trying to pen a letter to Bilbo. He must have got through a whole forest’s worth of parchment and still he could not find the words. Balin assured him he’d sent word that Thorin lived but they’d had no reply as of yet;

Perhaps it was cowardice, or shame. But whatever it was, it made Thorin’s throat close up and his eyes prickle and the words just would not come. Months after he had woken, he still hadn’t sent a word to Bilbo from his own hand. Bilbo had always found his stoic silence amusing - he’d see a small twitch of the hobbits lips when he saw Thorin was musing (not brooding, Balin) and his eyes would glint with mirth, as if they’d shared a good joke; now Thorin’s words choked him and memories hurt him and he knew it was his fault.

Balin wasn’t impressed, but when Thorin was allowed out of bed again he reluctantly agreed to send word to Bilbo for him, although they still hadn’t heard back from him.

‘Just this once more, Thorin,’ Balin said warningly and Thorin saw the accusation in his eyes that told him just what Balin thought of his inability to write. Of course the old dwarf knew of Thorin’s feelings for Bilbo - Balin knew everything, had known everything, always _would_ know everything - and Thorin knew that the dwarf believed he had a duty to write with his own hand. But how could he, when every time he went to set pen to paper his mind went as blank as the fresh parchment before, guilt slicing through him like stark black runes on a page.

When he was fully well again he got Balin to grant him leave just to go and see the hobbit. If he couldn’t write to him, perhaps the words would come if they were face to face and Bilbo was there to see his cowardice. Balin agreed with surprising ease after making Thorin promise to send a letter beforehand - which he begged Fíli and Kíli to write for him, the lads sneaking his own royal seal to sign off the envelope with - and then he left for the green hills of the Shire and his hobbit’s home and whatever fate Bilbo decided to grant him, be it forgiveness or kicking him right back to where he came from.

Thorin had expected insults, shouting, violence or even complete indifference. But he never expected what awaited him behind the smart green door of Bag End.

:::

He’d travelled long and hard, and when he finally reached the West Farthing, he continued on the entire day without stopping to make it to Bag End before nightfall, but even so the sun was dipping below the horizon and the eastern sky was already a deep dusky blue by the time he stood on the front step of Bilbo Baggins’ smial. Light shone out of the little round windows on either side of the door, a few candles guttering inside the hall, but he could see nothing more of the inside.

He found his hands were trembling as he reached out to knock and quickly drew them back under his cloak, breathing deeply to calm himself. He didn’t know what he’d do if Bilbo threw him back out, his own heart turning back on him. Not that he didn’t deserve it, but the thought still hurt and was enough to make his breath come quickly.

Doing it quickly before his courage could desert him, Thorin knocked loudly on the door; he heard it reverberate through the smial. He waited, holding his breath - more to hide the way it shook than anything else - but there was nothing. The door did not swing open; no hobbit stood upon the threshold. He knocked again, harder this time, and he hoped desperately that _someone_ would answer the door lest his bravery give way and he scarpered back to Erebor without even setting eyes on his most beloved hobbit to whom he owed his kingdom, his crown, his _life._ The hobbit who owned his heart and who he’d thrown mercilessly out of Erebor for something he’d done to save them all.

Finally he heard something from inside and straightened, his stomach a frightening mass of nerves and flutterings and things he didn’t nor want to understand. There was a small crash, as of something being knocked over, and a low muttered curse before the door opened and Thorin was faced with the one being he’d dreamed about every night since he’d gone.

‘Bilbo,’ he said thickly, emotion making his throat close up, but the hobbit said nothing, merely stared blankly at him. Then he realized there was something… _off_ about Bilbo, not least the completely empty look on his face. He had circles under his eyes, his hair was messy and looked unbrushed, and his shirt was wrinkled, as if it had been worn for a few days without washing. ‘Bilbo?’ he asked again, worry evident in his voice, everything he’d been practicing saying at this moment completely deserting him at the glassy look of Bilbo’s eyes.

There was silence for a few moments more before Bilbo gave a small hiccup, the sudden smell of alcohol very prominent in the air between them, and then Bilbo began to laugh. Small chuckles turned into a full-bodied giggle as Bilbo slowly toppled to one side, catching at the door to keep himself upright as his small body was racked with laughter. Thorin quickly caught him as his grip failed and he nearly fell to the ground, the only thing stopping him from landing bottom-first on the floor Thorin’s arm around his waist. As he continued to giggle Thorin wrinkled his nose; there was definitely alcohol on Bilbo’s breath.

He panicked then; of all the ways he’d expected Bilbo to greet him (or not), never had he envisioned _this_ happening. He looked around desperately for someone to help, but now the sun had set and all respectable hobbits were tucked away at home and Thorin was alone with a very drunk Bilbo still collapsed and laughing in his arms. Not quite the reunion he’d hoped for.

There was only one thing for it; Bilbo was obviously too drunk to be left on his own - the hobbit could hardly stand, judging by the way he was clutching at Thorin’s coat - so Thorin carefully manoeuvred them over the doorstep and into Bag End.

It was the same as Thorin remembered, and yet so different. Instead of the neat and orderly hobbit hole it had been before, with little doilies and vases filled with flowers on side tables, everything was a mess now. Old, withered brown flowers stood in their vases long gone dry, books lay scattered on the floor and there was dust coating the surfaces. It looked like the house of someone who no longer cared.

‘Bilbo,’ Thorin said, completely at a loss. Bilbo hiccupped again and released his hold on Thorin’s coat, plopping promptly down to the ground and simply sitting there, hiccupping and snickering softly. Thorin dithered for a moment before picking him back up carrying him along the corridor, opening the doors and trying to find which room was Bilbo’s bedroom. All of them were in the same sort of uncared for disarray, until he reached one with a large bed, the sheets strewn all over the place, clothes on the floor and - to Thorin’s horror and shame - empty bottles standing and lying in the middle of it all. It made his stomach curdle unpleasantly to think of Bilbo - his Bilbo - drowning his sorrow in alcohol; a small part of him tried to say it could be because of anything but in his heart of hearts he knew it was all his fault.

‘Thorin,’ Bilbo murmured sleepily as Thorin set him gently down on the bed, his speech slurred. Thorin’s heart clenched. ‘Look good,’ Bilbo giggled again and Thorin felt his cheeks warm at that. While they’d grown close, he’d always harboured deeper feelings for the hobbit than Bilbo had for him and to hear Bilbo say that brought all his imaginings and dreams back to the forefront of his mind, and he quickly pushed them away.

‘Go to sleep, Bilbo,’ he said softly, tugging off the waistcoat Bilbo was wearing, only three buttons done up and all of them in the wrong buttonholes. He tried not to let himself imagine what it would have been like to be undoing these buttons in a different situation, his hands trembling with need rather than shame and the bitter taste of guilt.

‘ _With_ you _,’_ Bilbo murmured again, wriggling under Thorin’s hands and he quickly drew them away, pulling the waistcoat off; he was about to discard it on the pile beside the bed with seemingly many clothes meeting the same fate, but hesitated and instead folded it neatly before placing it on the chair by the bed. His mouth was dry and the fact Bilbo was suddenly clutching his arm didn’t help, cold little fingers wrapping around it as the hobbit sighed softly. He prised Bilbo’s fingers off and hastily drew back, not risking removing any more of Bilbo’s clothes, but when he noticed the hobbit was snoring soundly he drew the covers up over his sleeping body and retreated, not shutting the door on him in case something happened during the night.

Gut churning unpleasantly, he made his way to the sitting room that adjoined the kitchen and sat at the table, trying desperately to ignore the empty bottles strewn around the room on various surfaces. He sat down on the sofa by the window, looking out into the night at the soft landscape, so different from the rugged mountains of his home; he couldn’t block out the sound of Bilbo’s soft weeping as he slept, choking on his own tears. Thorin wasn’t going to get much sleep tonight.

* * *

Bilbo woke with a pounding headache and his eyes felt as if they’d been glued shut, they were so heavy. He didn’t move for a few long moments, simply listening to the sound of the birds and life going on around Hobbiton. He hadn’t heard the sound of the dawn chorus since he’d first got back. He didn’t mind; it reminded him too much the quest and the dwarves he missed so much it hurt.

He resisted the urge to shake those memories away, knowing his head wouldn’t forgive him. He’d had the strangest dream, that Thorin… _his_ Thorin, not the King troubled by the goldlust, had come back to him. Ruefully he smiled and squeezed his eyes shut, it wouldn’t do to dwell on these thoughts - the pain spiking through his heart, squeezing it so tightly he couldn’t breathe, would only get worse.

Carefully he sat up and edged towards the edge of the bed, hands moving to take off his waistcoat - really, he must remember not to sleep in them - before realising that he wasn’t wearing a waistcoat. He looked up and saw it folded on his bedside chair. He obviously hadn’t drunk enough last night; if he’d been sober enough to remove his waistcoat he’d been sober enough to dream of Thorin, and that was the one thing he wanted to avoid.

Gingerly he got up and made his way to the kitchen, filling and setting the kettle to boil before reaching for a bottle while he waited. Just a sip wouldn’t hurt, just until he could add a splash to his tea. Sighing he moved into the parlour, looking out of the window at the farmers on their way to the market, before letting his eyes drift over his mess of a house. How his mother would be ashamed of how he’d let it get in such a state, dust on the surfaces and bottles everywhere and -

Bilbo let out a most unhobbit-like screech at the sight of the dark-haired dwarf on his couch, dropping the bottle he was clutching and only dimly registering the sound of it crashing to the floor and the feel of its contents splashing onto his feet, too focused on the pair of blue eyes that sprang open at his scream and met his, the body they belonged to freezing at the sight of him.

Bilbo was sober. He’d slept it all off. _Then why in all of Arda was his dead love sitting on his parlour sofa?_ He stepped back, barely feeling the pain as he stepped in the sharp glass shards that had once been his bottle, but Thorin - if it was truly him ( _except it couldn’t be, Thorin was dead, why was he_ here) - looked at him in alarm, his eyes widening as he looked at Bilbo’s feet.

‘Stop!’ he said and Bilbo had to stifle a sob; it sounded so like him, so real, that if this was some cruel jape he’d rather die than suffer this. He turned on his heel and made to flee from this phantom, this memory made flesh, but found himself on the floor instead, head spinning as his foot gave way, the pain of the glass biting into his skin shooting up his leg in spikes. He tried to back away from the Thorin-figure but when warm hands closed around his ankle and clear blue eyes looked into his, a soft voice saying his name with such emotion, he crumpled and all the tension left his body.

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply; the hand disappeared from his leg and he heard the now-whistling kettle being taken off the stove and cupboards being opened and closed until the presence reappeared at his side. He opened his eyes and looked - _really_ looked - and tried to stop his heart thumping out of his chest or stopping from the twisting pain it felt.

‘Bilbo,’ Thorin said - it _was_ Thorin, somehow; the dwarf was alive and well and very much here in Bilbo’s smial. The dwarf gave a tremulous smile and Bilbo wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry, so he steeled himself and sat straighter, ignoring the feel of the dwarf’s warm hands on his feet as he began to wipe off the blood from the cut.

‘What are you doing here?’ he tried to sound stern but he sounded more petulant than anything. ‘I thought you died.’

Thorin looked at him then, suddenly confused. ‘Balin said he sent you a letter telling you that I lived. Did you not get it?’

‘He sent a letter?’ Bilbo repeated, his brain functioning hindered by the remnants of his hangover and the feel of Thorin’s hands on his leg, on his _ankle_ of all things. ‘No, I didn’t -’ and the stopped, because he remembered what he’d done with all his post ever since he’d got home. Well, that is, he didn’t _remember_ exactly doing so but he knew he had thrown all his correspondence into the fire at one point or another, not even bothering to look at the sender or the contents before letting the hungry flames devour them word by word, turning the paper brown until it shrivelled to nothing. Unsurprising, then, that he’d not known that Thorin yet lived.

At that revelation he sighed, letting his head sink into his hands and ignoring the dwarf in front of him; he wasn’t sure if he’d punch the dwarf for what he did to him or kiss him for coming back. Either way he wouldn’t be in control of his actions.

‘Eru,’ he groaned. ‘I am _not_ drunk enough for this.’

:::

He didn’t - couldn’t - look at the dwarf all the while he cleaned his foot, all too aware of his haggard features and slovenly appearance. He’d let himself go, good and proper. As soon as Thorin was done he scrambled to his feet, limping a little, and retreated hurriedly to his bedroom, ignoring the hurt look on Thorin’s face. Bilbo had thought he was dead, had thought never to see him again; and he’d found him asleep on his parlour sofa! It was more than Bilbo was prepared for _drunk_ , let alone sober.

Slamming the door shut behind him he felt himself beginning to tremble and quickly, messily searched around the room for a bottle, taking a swig out of the first one he found that wasn’t empty. It calmed him enough that he could think straight enough to get changed, relieved he had enough clothes to change into; he hadn’t given his clothes to the launder’s in weeks if not months. When he was more presentable he steeled his nerves and padded softly back to the kitchen, where he heard Thorin clanging around and the smell of food; Thorin turned when he heard him and gave him a gentle smile, the one he’d given him some nights on their journey as they’d sat around a campfire. A smile that made Bilbo’s heart ache with the sweetness of it, wishing it was more.

Thorin set down a plate of only slightly burnt bacon and two fried eggs, the yolks cooked a little harder than Bilbo did on the days when he wasn’t too afraid to go anywhere near the stove lest the fumes from his clothes set the smial alight. Only two eggs wasn’t quite enough for breakfast - elevenses, maybe, if one paired them with black bread and fresh butter and ham, perhaps - but he merely nodded his thanks, his stomach doing funny things at the thought of Thorin Oakenshield in his kitchen, and sat down to tuck in.

‘I don’t know how you take your tea,’ Thorin said, setting a teacup down next to him.

‘With plenty of alcohol,’ Bilbo said. ‘Would you pass me that bottle?’ Thorin didn’t move. ‘Please?’ Thorin shook his head and instead moved over to Bilbo, the intensity of emotion on his face quite frightening.

‘Bilbo, I am _so_ sorry,’ he said hoarsely. ‘You... This... I didn’t know, I never -’ He paused and took a few breaths to calm himself while Bilbo sat there dumbfounded. ‘I don’t know that I can ever forgive what I did, especially not when it has driven you to this.’ He knelt beside Bilbo, not touching him but his eyes searching his own, his face, desperately seeking an answer.

‘I would smack you,’ Bilbo said honestly, ‘except I’d probably miss.’ He gave a small rueful smile and petted Thorin’s hand gently. ‘I don’t know what to do. I thought you were dead, I thought I’d made my peace with you, or at least with myself. But now you’re here and I don’t know any more.’

Thorin’s expression said he’d expected that answer, or something like it, but that he still hadn’t been prepared for it.

‘I can’t ever make it right, but I can try to lessen some of the wrongs I did you. Let me try, Bilbo,’ Thorin fairly begged and Bilbo’s mouth went dry, his stomach suddenly queasy. Yavanna, he loved this dwarf, this maddening, silly dwarf; he loved him so much it almost hurt just to look at him. Bilbo wished he was alone then, the pain in his heart almost too much to bear. He nodded roughly, jerkily; he fairly flinched when Thorin took his hand to kiss it in a gesture so sweet Bilbo thought he might combust, though not out of fear - merely surprise, as he tried to convince a miserable Thorin.

‘Can I have that bottle now please?’

Thorin hesitated but then looked at Bilbo firmly and shook his head again and Bilbo had to stifle his huff of annoyance. ‘This is my fault,’ Thorin said morosely, ‘and I’m going to stop it.’

‘I’d rather you just passed me the bottle,’ Bilbo said dryly but Thorin stood suddenly, so much taller than Bilbo.

‘Please, Bilbo. Let me help you,’ Thorin said, his voice so desperately sad that Bilbo felt his throat close up and he nodded before he even really knew what he was doing. But Thorin’s answering smile was so genuine Bilbo felt a little pain blossom in his heart, sending little shoots through his chest. Thorin quickly looked back at his pack where it lay on the floor next to the sofa where he’d slept and hurried over to it, rifling around in it until he made a triumphant noise and returned to Bilbo, standing behind him.

Suddenly Bilbo felt hands on his head and reflexively ducked away from them, but those warm hands found his head again and began combing through his ratty, unkempt curls. His face felt hot enough to burst as Thorin began brushing them, his movements so gentle and careful, especially when he hit a snag, that Bilbo’s heart was thumping

‘You’ve had a lot of practice at this,’ he said, nearly shivering as Thorin’s hand ghosted over his ear.

Thorin made a humming noise in agreement. ‘I’ve looked after Kíli as a dwarfling.’

‘Right. Yes. Well...’ Bilbo coughed, more to stop him blurting out anything he might regret later. The feel of Thorin’s hands in his hair, on his ears and neck, was so intense and made his heart clench painfully and he wished more than ever that he could just take a sip, one little sip of his drink, just to soothe his nerves. But instead it seemed Thorin had just _appeared_ back in his life, half scared him to death and now was deciding he could decide what Bilbo could or couldn’t do. He suddenly felt angry, angry at Thorin, at the world, at _himself,_ and he stood quickly, Thorin’s comb snagging on his curls and he yanked it out, turning on his heel and storming away to his room. Slamming the door behind him, he sank down in front of it, already reaching for the nearest bottle; when it came up empty Bilbo threw it carelessly to one side, clenching and releasing his shirt in his fists and trying not to give way to tears. 

* * *

Thorin didn’t know what to do. Nothing had prepared him for this eventuality, for dealing with this. What was he supposed to do? His hobbit had been driven to drinking and it was his fault, then surely it was his responsibility to help him? But Bilbo didn’t want it, if the way he’d stormed off was any indication.

He waited a few minutes, uncertain, but decided eventually to follow Bilbo. His bedchamber door was shut and he knocked. ‘Bilbo?’ he called desperately. It hurt him so much to see Bilbo like this, to see him letting himself go.

‘Go away,’ came the muffled reply. Bilbo’s voice sounded thick with tears but angry.

‘Bilbo, let me speak to you,’ Thorin pleaded. He had to speak to him, clear the air between them.

‘I said go away,’ Bilbo called back again through the door. ‘I don’t want to speak to you.’

‘Bilbo-’

‘No! Don’t you “ _Bilbo_ ” me, Thorin Oakenshield! You turn up here after everything and think it makes it - makes it all okay - but it doesn’t, Thorin, it doesn’t! I drink because I - because I need to forget you, to forget everything, so don’t you come and tell me what to do when it’s _your fault_ anyway!’

Thorin could say nothing. He opened his mouth to speak but no sound came out but he knocked with renewed desperation when he heard Bilbo’s sobs from inside.

‘Please,’ was all he said, his voice breaking on the word. ‘Please, Bilbo.’

The weight against the door disappeared and Thorin opened it gingerly, finding Bilbo with his back to him before the little round window. Neither said anything, the sound of Bilbo’s hiccupping breaths the only sound inside, stark against the cheerful chirping of the birds outside. Bilbo broke it, still not looking at Thorin.

‘It hurts too much to think of you,’ he said quietly, so quietly Thorin had to strain to hear it. ‘I couldn’t bear it, so I tried to forget.’ He turned to Thorin, his face haggard and tired and so, so sad that Thorin’s heart nearly broke. If only Bilbo knew how much Thorin had hurt whenever he’d thought of him. Bilbo gave a tiny, wry smile and turned back to the window, not looking at him; his shoulders were tense. When he spoke his voice was weary, as if tired of everything. ‘I loved you, Thorin. I think I still do. But I couldn’t bear to think of you afterwards, not after what happened. And now you’re back for who knows how long before you go again, leaving me alone with more memories to drown out.’

Thorin still said nothing, his heart hammering painfully. Bilbo loved him, had loved him, still loved him despite everything. How could he tell him that every night since he’d woken up, Bilbo had filled his heart, his mind? That he could never forget him, despite the hurt that had always pricked at him whenever he thought of his hobbit? Thorin would have tried to block the thoughts - the milk of the poppy the healers had tried to give him would have worked - but instead had suffered the pain thinking of Bilbo brought, because it was his fault he wasn’t there, that he was gone.

Bilbo glanced over his shoulder at Thorin’s silence, hunching over himself even more. Thorin stepped closer, reaching out a hand to Bilbo’s back and biting his lip when the hobbit flinched at the contact, remaining tense under Thorin’s fingers. Thorin had never been the best with words, fumbling often and messing up even more often, so Thorin spoke in the most eloquent way he knew. He pressed a soft kiss to Bilbo’s head, letting all his emotion and love and hurt well up and his eyes prickled with tears he’d never let fall but now found threatening to do so. He felt Bilbo stiffen slightly before relaxing into him, letting Thorin curl his arms around him protectively.

‘I don’t want to leave you, not ever,’ Thorin whispered fiercely into his curls and tremors shook Bilbo as he breathed shakily, clutching at Thorin’s lapel much as he had the night before. ‘I... I love you, Bilbo, and I can’t bear seeing you like this.’ Bilbo said nothing, only burrowed closer against Thorin. ‘When was the last time you went outside properly?’ Thorin asked softly, leaning back and cupping Bilbo’s face, bringing it up to face him.

‘Months ago,’ Bilbo muttered, eyes still shining with unshed tears. ‘I couldn’t bear to speak to anyone.’ Thorin pressed a soft kiss to his forehead and Bilbo let out a little whuff of air. ‘Tell me this is real, that I’m not still hung over.’ Thorin leant down to press his forehead to Bilbo’s and Bilbo let out a small laugh, his face lighting up briefly at the gesture.

‘Will you show me this village of yours then?’ Thorin asked softly, stroking Bilbo’s cheek - wan and pale and not the plump, pink dimpled face that had first charmed him so thoroughly, though it was still beautiful - until Bilbo’s eyes met his. There was a brief look of fear in his eyes but he nodded, taking strength from Thorin’s gentle caring touch.

‘Thorin -’ he started and fell silent again, but looked up again determinedly. ‘You’re going to leave again, aren’t you.’ He said it as a statement, not a question.

Thorin swallowed hard. He would have to leave eventually. ‘Not until you’re yourself again. And maybe... I’d hoped I could persuade you to come back with me.’

The look on Bilbo’s face was priceless before it broke into a smile so bright it could rival the sun itself. ‘Truly?’

‘I’ve thought of nothing but wishing you were by my side ever since I woke up. I would not jest, my heart,’ Thorin said, emotion welling up in his chest.

‘I think I need a drink.’ Thorin raised an eyebrow and Bilbo sighed, letting his head fall forward onto Thorin’s chest. ‘I don’t want to forget any more, Thorin. Help me not forget.’ Thorin leant down and hesitantly pressed a kiss to Bilbo’s lips, which Bilbo returned promptly, his hands reaching up to fist in Thorin’s hair. As they pulled apart he sighed softly. ‘I think... I think if you kissed me again, it would be better than a drink.’

He looked up at Thorin hopefully and Thorin gladly closed the distance between them, capturing Bilbo’s lips with his own in a gentle, sweet and increasingly heated kiss, holding him impossibly close as if by doing so, he could protect him from everything. He’d do whatever it took to help his hobbit, no matter how long a process it was or how hard, he would help Bilbo remember himself until they could return to Erebor together.

**Finis**

**Author's Note:**

> I hope the ending doesn't seem too rushed; if it does, it's because I really didn't want to go into the whole recovery process because I don't feel like I could write that and do it justice. And it _was_ meant to be fluff, after all; the original idea I had was the image of Bilbo laughing when he sees Thorin on his doorstep because he thinks he's so drunk he's hallucinating, and then it turned into this. I hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
